


Black Hole Sun

by armageddonslide



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alcohol, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Choking, DarkPilot, Dubious Consent, M/M, Mental Coercion, NSFW, Oral Sex, kmeme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-20
Updated: 2016-09-20
Packaged: 2018-08-16 03:26:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8084905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/armageddonslide/pseuds/armageddonslide
Summary: Ben quirks his head, a smirk spreading across his face. He runs his tongue across his upper lip as the scenario in Poe’s head plays out in his mind. Ben’s teeth brush against Poe’s neck. Poe’s tongue traces across Ben’s thigh. Ben’s hands slowly stroke Poe’s cock. The Falcon. “Want to come inside a YT-1300?”
Poe cringes, sucking air through his teeth. “If I admitted it wasn’t a first, would you judge me?”





	

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the Star Wars TFA Kink Meme, to fill the prompt:  
>  _Poe /Kylo | "I loved you" , 'I know'_

The air is thick with revelry as cadets of the New Republic Flight Academy on Yavin IV file out of the grand hall, where results of the year’s assessment testing have been posted. Poe beams so wide that his eyes are forced shut by the tiny worry lines that prematurely crease his temples. Classmates manhandle him in a celebratory manner, congratulating him for being the top of his class. He’s been hugged and slapped so many times on his return to his dormitory that the warning flares fail to fire when the tall boy grabs him from behind and pulls him into an alley.

Ben’s excited as he sinks his lips into Poe’s, his angular nose pressing into Poe’s cheek in the heat of the moment. Poe, pinned to the wall by his wiry companion, moans as he comes up for air. He wraps his arms around Ben’s chest for a hug before letting his hands drop to rest on the young man’s hips.

“Ben,” Poe breathes. “How? What are you doing here?”

Ben waves off the question with an air of disinterest in his father. “General Solo’s recruiting. But _you_ ,” he curls his fingers under Poe’s chin and strokes the definition of his jaw, smiling proudly at the ace pilot, “Congratulations.”

Poe laughs; popularity suits him, but he begins to blush when Ben Solo calls him out on it. The spark in Ben’s eyes betrays a breadth of emotions -- joy, pride, jealousy, and desire are the ones that immediately rise to the top -- and they’re all about _him_. Poe bites his bottom lip and something more feral claws at the back of his mind. 

Poe’s thumbs carve circles into Ben’s hips, and he lifts his chin to fix the taller man with a suggestive glance. “Dad’s busy, huh?”

Ben quirks his head, a smirk spreading across his face. He runs his tongue across his upper lip as the scenario in Poe’s head plays out in his mind. _Ben’s teeth brush against Poe’s neck. Poe’s tongue traces across Ben’s thigh. Ben’s hands slowly stroke Poe’s cock. The Falcon._ “Want to come inside a YT-1300?”

Poe cringes, sucking air through his teeth. “If I admitted it wasn’t a first, would you judge me?”

Ben rolls his eyes in mock disgust and kisses him again.

“I love you,” Poe breathes.

+

Ben’s older, wiser from the path he treads with Luke Skywalker. They’ve fallen off the radar: calls to family scarce; friends non-existent. The more the Jedi doctrine molds him, the more attachments he sheds. And maybe he’s better off alone and aloof, than terrifying.

The residents of the small village surround him, unconsciously. It’s as if he exudes some invisible bubble of simultaneous protection and fear. They avoid him, gathering their younglings closer and hiding behind vendor stalls to avoid eye contact, yet never leave him entirely alone.

And there’s a nagging sense of familiarity at the back of his mind, like a tune from his childhood that he can’t quite shake. 

He’s lost in that thought when a small purple fruit hits him on the ear. He pivots angrily toward his assailant, and his heart drops into his stomach. 

Ben stares; the familiar song amps to pitch-perfect clarity. The man before him is none other than Poe Dameron -- his broad chest, his strong shoulders, his musician hands -- _his_ Poe Dameron. Poe smiles at him, a purple fruit clenched between his teeth.

Ben’s stare persists a little too long, and Poe pelts him with another fruit.

“Stop that!” Ben commands, batting away the second projectile. He wants to be angry. He wants to be detached, alone, and at peace. He _wants_.

“My apologies, Master Solo.” Poe’s abashed expression is the worst apology. He offers an exaggerated bow, with extra hand flourishes for effect. “I was under the mistaken impression that your day would benefit from something _sweet_.”

Ben’s scowl evaporates as Poe pulls him into a warm embrace and kisses his cheeks. The scent of sweat and soap in his thick curls pulls at something deep within Ben with a twang.

They walk through the shops to the outer edge of the village, where watchful eyes become less frequent. Poe explains he’s followed the footsteps of his mother and become an accomplished Republic pilot. His eyes light up when he talks about his duties, his ship, his astromech, and his companions; and it’s the little attachments that make Ben feel entirely empty, like the husk of the person he once was with Poe.

That emptiness bores into the back of Ben’s skull and claws at his spine, whispering to him about the life he could have had. The life he _should_ have. Poe notices the silent reverie that Ben falls into, and answers it by cupping a possessive hand behind his neck and pulling him in for a greedy kiss. 

Poe’s stubble stabs at Ben’s delicate skin, and suddenly Ben feels more open to the Force than he has in years. His mind is raw against the pain of Poe’s fingers, tangled in his hair. His skin burns against the heat of Poe’s body, pressed against his. The Force crackles with the desire in Poe’s kisses, as his tongue rakes across his teeth. And he sinks into the _love_ that has always been smoldering there at Poe’s center.

Ben curses, the angry void within him claws for that arousal like a black hole devours light. He returns the kiss with his mouth, his hands, his body, and his being. Poe moans as Ben presses into his mind and pushes him into the grass. They collapse in a leggy heap under a tree, and Ben rips Poe’s shirt off, biting at the exposed flesh of his collarbone and left nipple. Darkness begins to crowd Poe’s vision as his hands burrow into Ben’s robes, sliding down his hips to pull at his trousers. He begins to stroke Ben’s rigid cock and cries out as the pressure in the back of his mind threatens his consciousness.

“Ben,” Poe gasps, pleading through grit teeth, “Let me _go_.”

Reality slams into Ben like a freighter full of ice; he freezes, severing his mental stranglehold on his lover. He feels the Force recoiling within him; veins chilling, he sobs breathlessly, confused and terrified. He reaches a trembling hand up to caress Poe’s flushed face, and thumbs a trickle of blood from his nose. 

“I…” Ben doesn’t know what to say. He could have _killed_ him.

Despite the trauma, Poe flashes him a weak smile. “Hey now. I didn’t say _stop_.”

“Poe, I...” Words aren’t enough to apologize for imposing -- no -- forcing your will onto someone else.

But Poe’s the strongest will Ben’s ever known, and his hands are still occupied. Poe gives Ben a compelling stroke. And then another. And another. Settling into a smooth rhythm, his thumb brushes over the younger man’s tip, and elicits a shameful full-body shudder. When Ben begins to forgive himself, Poe returns his free hand to its place behind Ben’s neck. He pulls him in for a delicate kiss, and whispers against his ear: “I love you.”

When the light returns to Ben’s eyes, Poe goes down on him; this time, it’s of his own volition.

+

Poe’s three shots into a well deserved downtime when the cowled figure slinks into the cantina. It’s late, he’s on the light-side of drunk, and _he_ knows only opportunistic pests gather so eagerly to such poor lighting.

The cowled figure is, of course, Ben Solo. He can try to hide it by changing the color of his clothes, but Poe knows every inch of that being, inside and out. He’s about to shout something racy across the room when a second and third cowled figure follow Ben into a secluded booth. They’re discussing something, waving away attempts at dutiful patronage, and exchange _something_ across the table.

Poe squints, hoping the act will grant him telescopic vision. Temmin Wexley slaps him on the back, breaking his attempt at superhuman feats.

“I’m out,” the big man admits in defeat, “You win this round.”

“Shhh…” Poe admonishes.

Poe waves him off, friendly but distracted. Snap squeezes his shoulder a little too hard as he leans in drunkenly to eye-level, to resolve what he’s staring at. 

Temmin squints and turns an ear toward Poe’s quarry, attempting to activate his own superhuman powers. He frowns, then forfeits. “Don’t start anything.”

With a few too-friendly gestures toward some feminine patrons (and a droid), Temmin lumbers out the exit. 

Poe sips lazily at his drink, and eventually two of the shadowy figures leave the booth in the back. He pays his tab and slides off his chair, allowing his feet to do the thinking as he wanders to sit at the booth with Ben Solo.

Poe coos as he takes a still-warm seat across from Ben, “Hey stranger.”

Ben stiffens. For a moment, Poe wonders if the man across from him truly is a stranger; his brown eyes are too dark around the sockets, his hair is too long and unkempt, and his demeanor is too cold and estranged.

“Poe?” Trying to be sly, Ben places a gloved hand over a dark object and slides it from the table, into a dark satchel at his side. 

Poe pretends not to feel rejected for an inanimate object. He points a finger-gun knowingly at his companion. “You know, for a Jedi, you’re awfully easy to sneak up on.”

“You’re not supposed to be here,” Ben hisses.

“I know.” Poe winces, then winks playfully. “You should take me home.”

Ben scowls, then shakes his head in disbelief. From under the table, Poe’s foot starts sliding against his leg. Ben kicks the stray limb, exhausted. “Go home. Sleep it off.”

“I would, but BB-8 gets super judgey.” Poe frowns, then folds his hands above the table, begging. “Pleeeease take me home. I’ll sleep it off. I’ll get off -- in -- I’ll get in your hair -- OUT. OUT of your hair.”

There’s a flash of anger in Ben’s eyes, but he relents. He pays his tab and scoops his drunken friend’s arm across his shoulders, leading him out of the cantina. When they get a fair distance from familiar territory, Poe moves his arm to rest in Ben’s back pocket and cops a feel. Ben’s muscles are tense, but muscular and firm. 

Poe emits a low whistle. “Damn, knighthood is working out for you.”

Ben grumbles, but doesn’t engage. He’s distant and focused on something other than the moment. Poe accepts the rejection as something against his actions, and files a mental note to ask Ben to include him on whatever mental fog he’s currently slogging through. It’s the least he can do for the kid.

The two of them make their way across an open-air tarmac in the outskirts of town. They pass rows of old and dingy aircraft; some appear to be private vehicles where others appear to be exhausted work horses. None of them are anything to write home about, especially in the dark, but all of them bare the kind of scars that denote character.

Ben helps Poe into a small transport that could be anyone’s. There’s nothing in the craft that strikes Poe as being distinctly Ben -- but maybe that’s the point. Poe starts to worry that Ben may be actually experiencing something more precarious than training with space wizards, when the man flips a couch out and buries a card table under it. 

Datapads, cylinders, and crystals fly from the cushions and pelt the walls of the ship. A rock slaps Poe in the chest and he catches it, reflexively. The purpose of the small, carved gem starts to dawn on him when Ben curses and hastily snatches it away from him.

“Are you building a lightsaber?” Poe asks, excited. 

“Yeah. Trying to.” Ben stuffs the collected pieces into the black satchel from the bar, then tosses the mess onto a guest seat. He orders, “Get in bed and take your clothes off.”

Poe snaps the Jedi an approximation of a salute and stumbles into the compact mattress. He swings his legs onto the bed, and grabs the bottom of his shirt to hoist it off, but gets tangled in the action.

“That’s wizard,” Poe continues, voice muffled by his cloth captor. “Luke teaching you?”

Ben sneers at the name, but Poe doesn’t see it. He takes a seat at the edge of the bed and begins divesting Poe of his boots. “I’m on my own.”

“Neat,” Poe offers, finally freeing himself. He balls the shirt up and throws it on top of the boots that Ben has neatly placed against the hatch. His eyes finally meet up with Ben’s, and he realizes something’s _off_ about his lover. “How’s that working out for you?”

“Great,” Ben lies. The adam’s apple in Ben’s throat bobs as he chokes down a flash of anger and pain. “Stop talking.”

There’s something there that Poe knows he definitely needs to dig into, but Ben stalls any further questions by pressing him against the bed by the mouth. He continues to plant kisses down his chin and neck, leaving fiery trails down Poe’s chest and abs. Ben unfastens Poe’s pants and tosses the garment onto the heap by the door. 

Ben shoulders under Poe’s muscular left leg, and Poe curls his fingers into Ben’s dark hair as he sucks at the base of his dick. Hot lips take him in and he bites his lower lip to keep from cursing. Poe’s not sure what Jedi sorcery produces lubricant from thin air, but rational thought is promptly dismissed when Ben presses two slick fingers into his knot.

The man plies into him like an artist, pushing and pulling little noises from Poe that he can’t recall ever muttering before. A rush of cold air blasts him as Ben slides his mouth of his cock; his abs clench in reaction, and Ben soothes the tension out of his core by rubbing warm circles across his stomach. Poe’s body is a bit of a battlefield, with one hand guiding him to a center and another rubbing three digits into his prostate. His mind is somewhere off in a failed firefight; nothing but a starfield and the occasional pinpricks of pain to remind him he’s right where he belongs.

Ben leaves him empty for the briefest moment, retracting his fingers and sitting up. Poe starts to sit up, to rebel, but long fingers wrap around his throat and pin him back down under the pillows. Ben hoists his other leg over a shoulder and Poe’s thick thighs engage as Ben leans over and into him. The adjustment is fast and clumsy, Ben’s dick slipping against Poe’s pelvis for a fraction of a second before Ben adjusts his hips and presses it against him.

Ben’s cock slides into his ass, and he doesn’t wait for his lover to catch his breath. He tightens his grip on Poe’s throat and rolls his hips faster. Poe can feel a mix of oxygen deprivation, muscle strain, and his alcohol fueled buzz stealing his self control; he spits, panting from exertion as the Jedi works some obvious anger issues out on him. He captures Ben’s wrist and squeezes it, coaxing Ben to find leverage elsewhere. 

Ben releases Poe’s throat and shifts both hands to the couch’s bare-metal frame. Poe is thankful for the consideration; lungs burning with oxygen and thighs tingling as the weight of Ben’s body is lifted from them, but the man’s pace intensifies with the new angle and he pushes harder, deeper, faster. All Poe can think to do is grab onto Ben’s hips and pray he survives the landing.

Poe cries out as he climaxes; the skyline in his mind blossoming into white-hot flames. The structure of his vessel gives way, burning shrapnel ripping through his body. He spurts against his stomach and again across his chest, leaving slashes against his skin like fresh scoring from too-close lancets of enemy fire.

And Ben keeps going. With a snarl of frustration, he sits back and flips Poe onto his stomach, then resumes the charge from behind. His hair sticks to Poe’s sweat drenched neck, and his breath weighs against Poe’s shoulder.

Poe tries to lift his hips and coax his lover toward the edge with a better angle, but his exhausted muscles cry mutiny.

Ben’s muscles spasm against Poe’s back, and his self control unwinds into oblivion. He collapses into Poe’s pliant body, and nuzzles against the back of his ear. His breath is ragged as he fights against the waves.

Ben rolls off of Poe and splays across the tiny bed, panting. Poe’s heartrate settles before Ben’s, and he shifts his arm under his face to watch the taller man’s chest rise and fall as it passes.

“Frankly,” Poe starts, forgetting his last order. “I’m a little terrified of what you’ll do with that lightsaber.”

With lightning reflexes, Ben grabs a pillow and slams it over Poe’s head with a whomff.

+

It’s difficult to extricate himself from the warm body curled against his chest, but Poe’s a pro. He pulls his arm from beneath Ben’s pillow and twists himself off the bed, fully aware of each protesting muscle.

He pulls his shirt on and slips into his pants, wordlessly watching Ben Solo as he sleeps. The ship’s tiny, and now that his focus can stray, he notices that it’s falling apart. A thin layer of dust sits atop whatever surfaces aren’t essential; Ben’s on a mission, or hunting, or being hunted.

Poe pushes a foot into his boot and loses his balance; he whips a hand out and grabs for the nearest supportive surface to save him from falling. The chair lurches, and Ben’s satchel slides to the floor with a soft thump, spilling its contents across the durasteel.

A battered black welding mask stares at him from the floor, and he immediately recognizes it as the item Ben tried to hide from him at the cantina. He picks it up and turns it over in his hands, as he puts on his other boot.

The mask is fairly unremarkable. It’s nicked and pitted from hot metal backlash; the eyewear a few shades lighter than advisable for the trade. Inside the mask, someone’s scratched a message: _Ben Solo. Earn your mask._

Poe idly runs his fingers along the lettering, and steals another glance at Ben, trying to put the puzzle together. Poe can’t recall anyone ever dropping out of Jedi Academy and becoming a machinist, but Ben was never one for doing things by the book.

He returns the mask to the satchel, and the satchel to the chair, then steps out of the hatch. Careful not to wake Ben, he whispers: “I love you.”

+

Kylo Ren lurks in the doorway of the _Finalizer_ interrogation room. The bruised and bloodied man before him is defiant and fiery even in the face of death. Poe’s been subjected to torture, stimulants, downers, and even simple questioning. And here he is, breathing labored and eyes glaring through the pain.

Kylo’s determined to complete this mission; his initiation to the Knights of Ren hinged upon him severing everything that was Ben Solo. He murdered Ben Solo: banished his parents, betrayed the Jedi Academy, and _earned his mask_. Kylo Ren isn’t a simple Knight of Ren, he _is_ the Knights of Ren. The very incarnation of power and passion, love and hatred, dark and light. And Poe Dameron terrifies him.

The dark eyes blaze at him, mocking him, threatening to tear down everything he’s built up for himself. Right here, right now, three little words could undo an empire.

Kylo presses his a gloved hand against the man’s face, creating a physical bridge between their minds own, and shoves past the seething hatred harder than he should.

The memories assault his senses; clips and phrases from an abandoned past. Kylo trembles and pushes past a foolish boy’s desperate kisses in the _Falcon_ ; awkward fingers and nervous eyes. _”I love you.”_

He shoulders beyond a child’s attempts to control the Force, innocence sundering itself under the pressures of desire, and the stab of pain straight to his heart at the sight of blood; tearful and shaking. _”I love you.”_.

He watches himself through Poe’s eyes, accepting him for all his messy faults; through all his attempts to push him away; through all the violent lashing and billboard hints toward his fall. _”I love you.”_

Kylo finds his throat hoarse from the screaming, not sure if it’s his own or a memory. Temmin Wexley wrings his hands while Leia Organa delivers the news with tears welling in her eyes. He lashes out, Poe lashes out, slamming his fist in his locker until it bleeds: Ben is gone.

Finally, he sees Poe. Terrified and defiant, realizing that he’s alone: mom’s gone, Ben’s gone, and Leia’s abandoned him. He’s failed up the mission. And he’s still defiant; staring down death until his last breath.

It’s _there_ that Kylo sees the last light of hope: not a squad mate, not a lover, not Ben -- a BB-8 droid. Poe’s eyes scan the horizon; no, not the horizon -- they’re looking at _him_. Poe Dameron’s gaze is boring directly into Kylo Ren’s.

”I loved you,” Kylo hears himself admitting, his face hot with tears.

“I know,” Poe croaks weakly, his physical voice ringing in Kylo’s ears.

The mental connection snaps as Kylo Ren breaks his hand away from his victim, but the damage is already done. Poe has blacked out beneath him on the durasteel slab. A trickle of blood runs down from Poe’s nose.

Kylo storms out of the room, before anyone witnesses the empire crumble.


End file.
